


grow up, learn the bitter(sweet)

by Xairathan



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Anthology, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-01-05 21:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21215135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan
Summary: A place to stick all myotherstuff that doesn't require an anthology of itself but by mass requires an anthology.Yeah I'm gonna be that dick clogging the tag with a wall of subtags. Just kidding I don't have enough to do that.





	1. Inferiority/Superiority

**Author's Note:**

> Rettou Joutou is a Kippoushi song and I'm angry that it took me 4 months to realize this.

Nobukatsu doesn't know what to do with the hand coming down unseen from above, tugging on the brim of his cap. It settles snugly atop his head, puffs of air and empty space whooshing out under a few coarse pats, followed by a playful tug of his ponytail. "Don't wear your hat crooked like that," a low voice rasps at him. "People won't take you seriously if you do."

"Who-?" Nobukatsu puffs his cheeks out, a habit taken, like so many others, from his big sister. At first, he doesn't recognize the person in front of him, all wild hair and toned muscle bared against a tight-fitting jacket. The hat perched lopsidedly atop their head and the sword hanging off their hip are unmistakable, though. "Eh- big sister?"

"I told you, I'm not- eh, fine. I guess you can call me that." Kippoushi sighs and cards gunpowder-blackened fingers through their matted hair. 

"But, but..." Nobukatsu scrambles to his feet. Even though this big sister isn't yet the head of the Oda family, to Nobukatsu, any big sister will always command his utmost respect and love. "Big sister, you-"

Kippoushi's gaze flits up, following Nobukatsu's. They meet in the same place: the sunrays of their hat, tilted sideways as though over a sloped horizon. To this, Kippoushi's answer is a brace of bared teeth, gleaming no less fiercely than the gold tassels their counterparts like to wear. "Well," they say. "That? That just can't be helped, little bro."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme: Precious

That the palace of Versailles still stands is no small wonder to Chacha. Then again, Osaka Castle had been rebuilt in spite of the many battles it had seen. Even then, Versailles had not been destroyed, unlike the place Chacha had called her home for most of her life. It stands as it once did, a symbol of France, and with it the last French ruler who had walked its halls, a hand clutching the brim of her sun hat, long silver hair swaying in the spring breeze.

"Isn't it wonderful, Chacha?" Marie says, the name of her travel partner rolling from her lips like waves against a sandy shore. "This is where I used to live. I would walk along the gardens every day- did you do anything similar?"

"Yes," Chacha replies; the sun gleams off her teeth and eyes, orange tongues of flame that crackle beneath her skin and roar over Osaka Castle in her dreams. What she remembers of cool streams glazing grey stone, winding through pillars of green, are the sandals of the men who had charged past the breached walls with swords drawn, the night filled with their shouts and promises of spilled blood.

Then that vision vanishes; Marie's fingers splay flat against her cheek, soft as they trail slowly down towards her lips. "Chacha?" she says. "I'm sorry. Did I remind you of that again?"

"It's alright." Chacha's hands cover Marie's, curl around and sink into the dip of her palms. Marie's eyes sparkle with worry, and Chacha gives her hands a light squeeze, feels the firmness of her touch, here and real. The fires that had consumed Chacha and her son still linger in her being, threatening to run loose from her and consume everything that Chacha loves that still survives-

-and here, so close to the place where Marie had died, it whispers to her in dark plumes of smoke and bone burnt down to the marrow, at the steps of a decadent palace that had once housed an equally indulgent queen- or so the legend goes.

But Chacha has accepted this. It is as much a part of her as Marie's beloved France is of her, that everything she holds precious to her will eventually be burned by her. Chacha knows this, and knows too that even that wouldn't be enough to drive Marie away. Each of them knows well what it means to be brought to ruin, and so if ruin comes again for them, they will face it together. For now, Chacha lets Marie tug her forward, leading her by the hand up the palace steps and into its vaulted halls, and with that gathering everything Marie loves into one singular place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Wesakechak as part of our Inktober exchange. Dear Lort I'm behind I wonder why...  
-stares at 1.5.92-110 and 8000 Worlds-  
I basically did like 3 NaNos back to back across 3 months NaNo can suck my-


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noodlekatsu. Katsudon.

In the modern age, things like udon can be found easily on street corners, packages in little plastic containers to be cooked with boiling water and packets of broth. Of course, nothing like that would satisfy big sister. 

Nobukatsu awkwardly angles the cutting edge of his scraper over the rolled-out mass of dough. Flour clings to his hair and to his sleeves, which in spite of his best efforts can’t stay hiked up his scrawny arms. 

For the best results, that weird Archer said, udon should be cut no wider than the width of your smallest finger. Nobukatsu squints at his hands, frowning. Archer hadn’t really mentioned if that measurement was for average sized hands. 

Lost in thought, Nobukatsu doesn’t notice the spiky shadow falling over him. 

“Hey. Watcha doin’?”

Nobukatsu shoots upright, scraper landing flat in the dough, the flame at the end of his ponytail flaring wildly. “Ahh! Big sister?”

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to make an udon servant larva,” Kippoushi sighs. “Master’s already got her hands full with Berserker.”

“I’m not!” Nobukatsu protests. “It’s just udon!”

“Eh?” Kippoushi wanders around to the opposite side of the counter, plopping their chin on their hands. “Since when do you cook?”

“Since… since…” Nobukatsu sputters helplessly. He’d picked up the hobby after his first failed rebellion against his sister. Nobunaga had her tea ceremonies, Nobukatsu had food, chasing the days of a full table and his big sister leaning over to steal the good bits from his bowl. 

“Ah, it doesn’t matter.” Kippoushi moves to prod the dough, only for Nobukatsu to yank the cutting board away with a swift jerk of his arms. 

“Don’t touch it yet!” wails Nobukatsu. “I’m not finished!”

“But I’m hungry,” Kippoushi pouts. “You told me to come to the kitchen.”

“You’re early!” Nobukatsu retrieves the scraper and jabs it into the udon dough. A thin strand escapes the mass and rolls off to the side. So far, so good. 

“I guess I am. Should I go shoot some targets and come back?”

“I- well, you can stay,” Nobukatsu says. “Just don’t eat anything!”

“Aww, fine.” Kippoushi settles down on the counter, red eyes peering up from behind bushy hair. They’re not the big sister Nobukatsu remembers exactly, but still Nobukatsu feels an air like his big sister’s petulant self hanging over them, and with it the ever present longing for their approval. “Hey, Katsu,” they say. “Got any konpeito?”

Nobukatsu reaches into his flour-dusted pocket, pulling out a small sack of candy. Kippoushi accepts it with a wide grin and a declaration of thanks, pouring some out onto their hand and knocking them back all at once. Nobukatsu looks back down at the dough, carefully cutting away another strand. Maybe reconciling with his big sister won’t be as impossible a task as Nobukatsu once thought it to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in 14 minutes in a sleep deprived stupor with no intentions of making noodle puns


	4. Salter/Jalter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remembered I had this lurking in my archives so I was like might as well post this

"Get your fucking hands off me, ice bitch queen," Avenger snarls around the can pressed to her lips, teeth bared as much to display her displeasure as to stop them from chattering.

"You're more rigid than that banner of yours you must have stuck up your ass." Saber prods deliberately at a particularly tight-wound knot in Avenger's back. It's a good thing Avenger's turned away from her, so she can't see the upward fluttering of Saber's lips at the hiss of discomfort that leaves her. "For someone who blusters about burning people so often, you have no sense of how to handle yourself in the cold."

"I can handle myself fine!" Avenger twitches to the side, throwing her hair over her shoulder, as if to shoo Saber's hands away like annoying flies. "Speak for yourself. I bet you dress like that 'cause you're so frozen up inside you don't even feel a thing in the snow."

"Maybe I don't." Saber's hands creep up and over Avenger's shoulders, dance down the lines of her collarbones. "All the more advantageous for me."

"Tch." This is where Avenger would leave, if only she had it left in her to stand. Running from Lobo has tired her; diving into a snowdrift and crawling around in it to mask her scent has sapped whatever strength was left. It was all she could manage to make it back to Saber's hideout, even if this was the welcome that awaited her.

(If Avenger is honest, she does think of this as welcome. It's a good thing honesty is a thing of her original's, and not herself.) 

"If you dislike it, you're free to leave. As always." Saber's fingers inch closer to Avenger's neck. For the first time, Avenger's thankful she's too tired to move. To flinch would've been to give herself away, but to stay is to risk Saber feeling the hammering of her pulse, the heat gathered there from the incessant roaring of her heart. 

"Sounds like you're tired of me," Avenger grins. "You tired of me, ice bitch queen?"

"Tired of your yapping, mad dog." Saber's fingers press sharply against the join of Avenger's collarbones, just below the hollow of her throat. Avenger isn't afraid, though. This is just Saber performing her duty, whatever this twisted version of her might consider that to be. To have Saber's hands around her throat would be stepping into territory they never speak of, only fill, and itself so rarely visited. 

Perhaps they'll cross that boundary later, once Avenger's regained some of her strength. For now, she lets herself settle against the couch, a visible sign of complacence (never submission). 

"Tell you what," Avenger says. "You keep going, I'll shut up. Fair trade."

"You're in my territory," Saber reminds her. "And my hospitality only extends so far."

"That's my offer. Take it or leave it." 

Saber's hands stay motionless, but only for a handful of seconds, the appropriate time for a king to appear to deliberate a decision. They slide beneath Avenger's jacket, push it away, begin working at the tension in her shoulders. Avenger closes her eyes and pretends it's the couch she's sinking into, and not Saber's touch. Regardless of what she pretends, there's one thing she cannot deny: the warmth of the so-called ice bitch queen, chasing away the chill that fills Shinjuku's midnight air, the movement of her skin against Avenger's hotter and more potent than any fire Avenger could call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I joke about being the dick that clogs up the tag but at the rate I keep getting distracted that really will become reality


End file.
